


day-break and the morning hills behind you

by schweet_heart



Series: Merlin Fic [40]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Edwardian, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - World War I, First Kiss, First Time, Frottage, M/M, Mutual Pining, Outdoor Sex, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-08
Updated: 2017-01-08
Packaged: 2018-09-15 03:44:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9217127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schweet_heart/pseuds/schweet_heart
Summary: WW1 AU. This, too, is an unbearable heat, the constant pressure low in his gut that is the desire to touch.Prequel tonot in the hands of boys, but in their eyes. Written for the Avalon's Library Short Fics Fest 2017.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Siegfried Sassoon's _[Idyll](http://www.yourdailypoem.com/listpoem.jsp?poem_id=850)_.

 

 

 

The summer of 1914 peaks in mid-July, weeks of dry, arid heat crystalising into a sweltering day that leaves them all scrambling for any scrap of shade they can find. The oppressive temperature makes Arthur irritable, his usual diversions rendered unthinkable by the stifling limpidity of the afternoon, and the atmosphere in Camelot House is one of a storm front about to break. Downstairs, one of the maidservants faints from heat exhaustion, and when the Lady Morgana is brought home in disgrace from a local political meeting, the ensuing furore drives Arthur to do what he has been wanting to do for weeks: to grab Merlin by the wrist and drag him out into the grounds and the quiet, away from the noise and bustle of the house.

 

Emerging into the late afternoon sunlight is like breaking the surface of a lake after too long underwater. Despite his haste to get away, Arthur slows and lets go of Merlin’s arm at the bottom of the steps, tipping his head back and closing his eyes.

 

“Thank God,” he says, with feeling. “If I have to sit through yet another argument about Home Rule, I think I may go mad.”

 

Merlin snorts. “Am I to understand that you _don’t_ think Irish self-governance is the most important issue facing the British Parliament today?”

 

“No, I don’t.” Arthur points a finger at him. “And neither do you, at least not in my father’s hearing.”

 

“I thought you were eager to get rid of me.”

 

“Not at the cost of having to scrub your blood out of the carpet.” Arthur shakes his head. “I’ve never seen the pater look so murderous. Quite refreshing to have him angry at someone else for a change.”

 

“You know he only does it because he cares,” Merlin reminds him. “He thinks that if he yells at you enough, you won’t get into so much trouble.”

 

“Yes, well.” Arthur looks away. “Sometimes I wish he’d care a little less. Or hide it a little better. One does so hate to make a scene.”

 

He can see Merlin glancing at him out of the corner of his eye, and bends his head to light a cigarette, cupping it with his hand as a shield against a nonexistent breeze. The scent of burning tobacco fills the air with a vaguely acrid fragrance, and Arthur inhales, before looking up directly into Merlin’s troubled gaze.

 

“Stop looking at me like that,” he says, shaking out the match. “I’m not about to get myself sent down out of spite, so stop worrying.”

 

“I’m not worrying,” Merlin denies, although there’s the suggestion of a smile lurking around his mouth. “You’re imagining things, my lord. As usual.”

 

“Am I, indeed,” Arthur says, and offers him the cigarette. Merlin takes it, meeting Arthur’s eyes as he fits his mouth over the end of it, carefully positioning his lips over the exact spot where Arthur’s had rested only moments before. Arthur’s eyes linger on the shape of his mouth as it bows around the cigarette, the hollow of his cheeks where he sucks in air. This, too, is an unbearable heat, the constant pressure low in his gut that is the desire to touch. Some days he thinks that all it would take is one brush of Merlin’s fingers and he would split at the seams like an overripe fruit, spilling out all his secrets for anyone to see. “And what else do I imagine about you?”

 

It is, he thinks, a ridiculous thing to say – it suggests a level of intimacy that they have not yet reached, despite the occasional fumbling hand, a glance or two snatched amidst the comings and goings of the house. And yet, Merlin is smiling at him, a wry little curl to his mouth, dropping the cigarette and crushing it beneath one foot.

 

“I don’t know, Arthur,” he says, stopping in the shadow of a large oak. “Why don’t you tell me?”

 

They can barely see the house from here, the great eyes of its windows obscured by the rise of the hill, and it is only a matter of moments before Arthur has Merlin pushed up against the trunk, slotting their thighs together like puzzle pieces. Merlin lets himself be pushed, studying Arthur’s face as if it might tell him something fascinating. His hands are caught in Arthur’s shirt.

 

“I’ve imagined this,” Arthur tells him roughly, scraping his teeth down the white skin of Merlin’s throat until he moans. He rolls his hips against Merlin’s body, hears his sudden intake of breath. “And this.” His hands slipping under Merlin's belt. "And this."

 

Merlin’s fingers on his buttons are steady and sure, almost proprietary in the way he folds Arthur’s jacket and shirt before setting them aside. By contrast, Arthur is perfunctory; he drops Merlin’s clothing carelessly on the grass and slides his hands up to Merlin’s neck, cupping his jaw to pull his mouth down for a kiss. Merlin’s tongue slides against his, shocking and wet in the heat of the day. Cicadas buzz around them. From the trunk emerges the scent of dry earth, something light and brittle like burning wood, and Arthur moves against Merlin with a fast-burning heat, too caught up in the erotic detail of his mouth and hands to slow their progress towards completion.

 

Merlin is almost silent when he comes, his head thudding back against the oak so sharply it takes them both by surprise. Prisms of colour splinter across his face. Arthur holds off for a few moments longer, nuzzling into the sweaty crook of Merlin’s shoulder, and when he breaks it is to the weight of Merlin’s hand curled around the back of his neck, to Merlin’s voice as he whispers, “I’ve imagined that too.”

 

 Summer enfolds the hills around them, stifling and hot and very, breathtakingly still.


End file.
